


And One Day, What's Lost Can Be Found

by chuplayswithfire



Category: The LEGO Movie (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Religious, Dangerous Situations, Gen, Religious Themes, Slow Build, Underage Prostitution, Work In Progress, cursing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 07:55:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1891134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chuplayswithfire/pseuds/chuplayswithfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A ticked off and battered pirate, an optimistic and wise hippie, and the journey to a friendship. Gods and Deities AU: Master Builders gain their power through contract and worship of various deities and spirits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And One Day, What's Lost Can Be Found

Our world - is expanding, a world of changes and growth, of order and chaos. A world in which some have gained extraordinary power through what some would call a contract and others, a commitment. In either way - it is an exchange, of service to a spirit, a deity for the power to shape the very essence of the universe.

There are many debates, many battles – should the power of these, these Shapers be governed? Should those who serve the divine be registered by mortal law? Should pagan rituals be granted the recognition of those more, established religions? Some, the conspiracy theorists which must always arrive, suppose that these few are a grand hoax, put upon by the government.

But could a government of mere mortals ever provide the powers displayed? To change water to wine might be a simple task, and even to walk on water – but to command the very heavens and fly without aid? To weave shadow and light and recreate the aurora?

…To grant the gift of life itself, and wrest from simple plastic and metal a beating heart?

Among all the debates, among all people, there is only thing that is agreed upon: the Shapers exist. And their numbers are _growing._

\--

Blood, blood on the water, and the knife flashes, and the blade sings over the goat’s slit throat, the animal kicking and bleating, but it’s getting weaker, softer, harder for it to fight and they’re crying, sobbing too. It was a messy cut, weak and desperate, inexperienced.

But it’s there, and the blood is in the water and on the sand, pouring over shells and pearls, over the mirror.

The kicking is soft now, barely moving, the chest moving, up and down, so softly.

“Y-Yemaja, H-holy Queen Sea, Queen of Witches, M-mother of Fishes, p-please hear my call,” the voice breaks, high pitched with fear and rough with sobs, “Please, please, please oh goddess please hear my call, I – I offer you this animal, this blood for your consumption and pleasure…”

They’re not doing it right, they know they aren’t – there’s supposed to be a procession, supposed to be priests and gifts, not cheap pearls they’d had to spend extra hours on the streets, sucking cocks and everything else to afford and hide away, not a shitty cracked mirror they had to steal from the garbage, not supposed to be /alone/, with a scrawny goat for a sacrifice and pleas thrown together like something a fucking kid made but, but that’s just it isn’t it?

A stupid kid is all they are, a stupid whore kid with a busted face and bruises everywhere and blood dripping down their thigh, blood and cum, with offerings not fit for a trashcan let alone a goddess.

It’s all they have.

Please be enough (it’s never been enough).

“I – I want to – please, give me the power to get out, to get /anywhere/, I know this isn’t – proper that I’m not doing it right – no, shut up the goddess doesn’t care about that stick to the words –“ They bite their lip, growling and shaking their head, feeling the sting of useless tears, because dammit, dammit no, they can’t mess this up, can’t mess this up like they’ve messed everything else in their lives up, please-

Not just any god, not just any spirit, it has to be this one, has to be her – sea, sea, water, ocean, everlasting, never stopped, never captured – the sea wore everything down, eroded it all away. Let it be the Sea. Please.

(The sea is a mother, they say. Please, mother please. Help me.)

“Sorry, sorry…Yemaja, Goddess, I – I don’t know what you’ll see in a-another useless whore, a dumb kid who fucked everything up but I swear I’ll, I’ll do anything, I’ll give you everything, even my rotten, awful soul if you’d bless me with this chance please-”

They hear shouting, somewhere behind them. Shouting and angry voices, and they’re heart starts to race.

It’s not any voice they recognize, no one they know but that doesn’t mean anything – how many people are in His organization, how many people work for him? Too many, too many and they’ve been gone to long, too many hours with no check in, without confirming a customer or sending in a payment and they’re going to get beaten again, can already feel the blows, phantom memory playing over them, heavy booted feet colliding with a vulnerable belly and they can feel the acid bubbling in their throat, just waiting to spill out what little there is, what little and precious substance they might have managed to get a hold of and it won’t stop there, there will be the fists and the punches, and what if it’s the face what if they have permission to go for the _face_?

Bruises are bad enough, no one wants a busted up whore but if their face is fucked up they can’t even – they won’t even have a chance of getting a customer, all the make up in the world can’t hide blackened eyes and busted lips from the guys who want to buy them for the night, they’ll have to sell cheap and give five dollar blow jobs and they won’t even be able to make enough to avoid another beating, let alone work on paying off their debt –

They’re sobbing and not sure when that happened, crumpled in blood and water, over the body of a dead kid, the fur soft and wet against them and what a pathetic showing this is, how are they supposed to – to get the attention of a goddess when they can’t even stop BLUBBERING long enough for a bullshit desperate ritual, they’re so fucked.

Hahahaha… the whore is fucked.

Of course they’re fucked, they’re a fucking whore –

“…please, please I know I’m not – worth it, there’s better offerings, there’s better people out there, people with skills and money and things they can offer you and all I’ve got is my body but please, I swear I’ll give you everything, I’ll give you my everything and be whatever you need me to be, please…”

A shaky grab at their wrist, and then the knife is out, again, pressed against dark skin and they drag the blade down. This time, the cut is more confident than the hesitant, terrible slashes in the goat’s throat. Their blood beads up, drips, drips.

 Falls.

They’re still sobbing, still blubbering and babbling, still worthless, useless, the voices getting louder behind them when it starts, when She starts.

 The blood sinks to the bottom of the water, stays whole despite every law of physics and fluids, each droplet shining crimson. And then – a glow, from each of them, as the blood transforms from dark red to an iridescent seafoam blue, innumerous shining lights; enough to light up the shitty little pool of water they’d been able to collect.

More, the goat’s blood – all the way to the goat, to the droplets on the sand, to the remnants swirling in the ocean – the waves, the waves, until they were surrounded with iridescent light, and then – darker, the lights fading, the water turning dark, dark, dark as the voices they’d heard became loud and clear, two men, in rough clothes, one of them with a gun.

A voice laughed. It was great and powerful and feminine, in some strange way they didn’t understand. There was water glowing, all about them, somehow – waves of water black as the night sky above, black as the ocean at night, dark and unending as the sea herself.

There was no fear, now.

The gun fired, the sound echoing in the silent night and they don’t move, don’t even breathe. The water reacts father than the eye can really follow, a rushing wave that defies every logic – that waves don’t move from the sand, that water left things wet, none of it mattered. A wave of water, black as oil, as night, as darkness itself (black like them, was the whisper) snatched the bullet out of the air, enveloped it, enveloped everything.

Screams split the air as the two men were enveloped by the dark water, as it wrapped about them like a cocoon, enclosing, encircling, as their screams became a choked little gurgles, pathetic things, and then – the water fell to the ground.

A gun falls with it, but that was all. No evidence that there had been a person, let alone two. That there had been a threat at all.

They laugh, and maybe the sound is filled with tears too, and maybe it’s a little violent, a little crazed. The water rolls back to them and they open their arms to it, to the waves that are striking from the shore, harder and harder, faster and faster, climbing the sand to reach them.

Walk into the sea, and open their arms and they let it, let _her_ take them. The little alter with its cheap pearls and cracked mirror lies behind them, swallowed by the rising sea.

-

Excitement that was what rushed through their veins. Excitement and pure anticipation, happiness in their gut like a miniature sun – this was going to be the best day of their life! It was here, the day, the day, that most important and amazing day and just! Wow!

Vitruvius was bursting with excitement, kicking their feet and jumping for joy whenever there weren’t eyes on them – not very often, admittedly. But how else were they too react! They were just so pumped!

A Shaper, they were going to be a _Shaper_ , they were going to have the closest connection you could have to a lwa, they were going to be that much closer to Bon Dieu, how could they not jump for joy? Sure, they weren’t there with many people, sure they weren’t in traditional dress, but did it matter?

No way. Not even a little bit.

There was a cough from behind them and they jumped, a sheepish blush rising to their face. Aw, heck, they were caught.

“I understand that you are _excited_ son, but you need to calm down. Save your energy for the ceremony and not waiting line,” Mambo Theresa said, a smile in her voice, if not on her stern face.

They grin, nodding frantically to show they understand, even as their feet kept bouncing, their fingers fidgeting and snapping. “Got it! I’ll do my best ma’am, I’m just – so excited! It’s finally the DAY!” The combination of excitement and fast chatter mixes with their heavy Cajun accent, and if it weren’t for the fact that Theresa shared the accent she’d probably trouble understanding them.

As it is, she just shakes her head, and Vitruvius is left once more, bouncing on their heels, watching the doors before them.

They’re in a church, no, a temple – a huge temple, one of the largest in New Orleans, a sanctuary for the Vodou practitioners of the city. It’s old, older than their parents even, practically as old as New Orleans itself, hidden away deep in the French Quarter, well cared for and respected. Only the most important ceremonies were held here, and Vitruvius wasn’t sure if it was because the temple was so steeped in history and importance, or because it was such a hassle to for everyone to get here and get organized within it.

The old style and small, cramped quarters of the temple meant that they all had to line up outside; they could only initiate a few at a time, sometimes only one if they had a big family, and Vitruvius found the whole thing frustrating! Sure, only a few other people even close to their age were being initiated today, but _everyone_ undergoing initiation was still being brought into the highest form of service to a lwa, into the commitment of being a Shaper, and they want to be there! For each and every one of them, to congratulate them, to cheer for them and smile for them and support them!

But the temple was too small and elegant for that!

And since they can’t, they want to bounce and be excited and share their excitement with the world! Because… this is the best day. Everything is coming together! Everything is –

“Vitruvius Tisono and family, your time has come. Please step this way.”

EVERYTHING IS READY OH GOSH HOLY FUCK!

Vitruvius practically bounces through the ceiling, excitement ratcheting up to previously undiscovered levels. Amazingly, their steps are steady and formal once they start moving, calm, despite the grin that keeps creeping to their face, the excited energy all around them, practically shining from their eyes.

Mom and dad are just a few steps behind them, aunts and uncles, cousins and grandparents following after – their family is large enough that it’s just pretty much just them for the initiation, scores of family and then the procession of mambos and houngans that would actually conduct the ceremony.

As they step in, Vitruvius’ eyes widen in awe. Vibrant colors filled the temple, from yards of cloth and folds of fabric placed over alters, to the jewels and gems in heaps on the alters of those lwa who would demand them, and even the colorful trinkets and odds and ends each initiate had contributed to the alter. There were plants and sea shells and weapons and candies and any and every sort of token the individual lwa would appreciate, set out in honor of those who were gaining new worshippers, new priests, and in apology to those who weren’t.

Without err, Vitruvius seeks out Gran Bwa’s alter and they feel their lips twitch into a smile to see it full, abundant with flowers, clipped branches and buds, leaves of every shape and size. Even with the few people taking the plunge and pledging themselves to the lwa this way, Gran Bwa was favored, and their heart swells with pride – perhaps ill-gotten, but pride nonetheless – to know they were swearing themselves to a lwa where there would be a community – where they would be others, who would know the burden and the joy and the power of their connection to the spirt world. In some ways, it isn’t really a surprise; in this day and age, with the world around them in turmoil from the fight for civil rights, for the

The vodou community was one of the closer religious communities, one of the only ones holding together and embracing the re-emergence of Shapers to popular society, and it’s not that they don’t expect the practitioners who _aren’t_ Shapers to stop accepting them as part of the community once this rite is finished it’s just – it’s a comforting thought, that there will be others to share this journey with. Others who feel the pull, the call to serve Gran Bwa, to serve a petro lwa in the most permanent way they could.

None of them today – none of them here were making some shallow bond, promising to exchange some of their life force for power, the way those ‘contractors’ did. No, each of them was making the ultimate commitment, letting their life, their being mix with the spirits. They would have power and power would have them.

After today, they weren’t a single person anymore. They were a priest in the utmost sense of the word, not just the status of houngan they held now, but a Shaper houngan, able to communicate with Gran Bwa without being ridden, not just able but _obligated_ to serve his will by bonds they were willingly etching into their soul. They would never see the world the same way again, bonded as they would be to something so much greater.

Vitruvius couldn’t wait. Couldn’t wait. And they didn’t have too.

“Friends and family – we have gathered this day to welcome our brother to the highest calling we mortals can achieve in our service to Bon Dieu and the lwa…”

-

“Alright lads and lasses, ye know what needs to be done! Those of ye who ain’t workin’ on repairs get with me! We need supplies an’ we need ‘em now, before Blackbeard decides to turn his goddamn ghost ship around an’ come after our asses! Come on hop to it!”

“Aye aye, Captain!” Nearly a hundred voices shout assent, for all that barely twenty of them approach, ready to come the small island before the lot of them.

The crew of the Sea Cow, were a tired, unhappy lot. Rough riders, all of them, they hated running from any fight and lately it seemed all they could do, with Blackbeard chasing off or enslaving every sailor he could find, adding them to his army. Not a one of the pirates who called the Sea Cow home found either option worth entertaining, and so.

Unhappy pirates, tired of running.

At least the Cloud Cuckoo Islands (as Metalbeard had taken to calling the damned things) made for a useful hiding place, with weather unpredictable enough that without Shapers who could guide and manipulate the weather it was impossible for a ship to stay afloat for more than a handful of days. With the Sea Cow’s crew filled to the brim with Shapers with just that ability, they’d made the island chain their temporary home base as needed, hopping from island to island when necessary.

Lately, it had been very, very necessary.

Metalbeard shakes their head, running a hand through their mess of half braided and half loose hair as they descend the ship. It’s been a frustrating, thankless task keeping them all alive – everyone, including they themself, wanted to be out hunting Blackbeard and ending the threat, to go down fighting if need be. The only reason they didn’t was the fact that that was a stupid plan and everyone knew it. They just happened to be the poor bastard who had to actually enforce it on the rest.

“Ye lot out to know the drill by now – this here island is deserted, nothing but us and bitty critters not worth eating here. Fill up as many of yer canteens and tanks with water and get ‘em back to the ship – if ye want a drink, take it from the source, no skimming off the supplies ye hear?! Same goes for fruit – fill up these here baskets and bring ‘em back. Anyone who can’t follow these simple rules, ye know the punishment – I’ll have ye scrubbing the deck in your skivvies, fer all to see!”

Grumbling assent is the response, and the crew split off into pairs, off to gather supplies and hunt for water. Metalbeard walked alone, picking a path through the trees and idly gathering fruits. Truth be told, they didn’t much need the spare food supplies – water yes, always, but not food – but food hunts through the islands were a good relaxer, and they didn’t have any reason to turn down such a reasonable request.

It’s not like there were any people on these islands.

They were still telling themselves that five minutes later, when they ran right smack into the single most stick-like person they’d ever met.

Tall, but not as tall as them, with long hair that was already going grey, despite the fairly youthful look to their face, and an angular jaw softened by a bright smile. He was thin, a white coat – a lab coat? – practically hanging off shit shoulders, a tie-dye shirt and bellbottom jeans underneath, and sneakers painted the most obnoxious shade of green they’d ever seen. Crowning his head was a flower crown, full of brightly blooming flowers, and the rest of the long tresses were braided through with them. Even as Metalbeard’s hand dropped to their sword and they glowered, his hand raised in a jaunty wave.

“Well hey! I wasn’t expecting to see anyone else here! You’re a pirate, right? Not many of those around here lately. You can call me Vitruvius, how about you?”

-

The battle ends as they all have thus far - with Blackbeard escaping and the Sea Cow burning, her crew hurriedly bashing out flames and her captain channeling the force of the sea itself to quell the roaring fire.

Vitruvius can tell it's not a good time to address their worries, to start a confrontation, and so they wait. Even though it irks them and even though it makes them dance in anxious desire, because this will not go over well, because they will have to choose their words carefully or it won't be just the Sea Cow aflame, because Metalbeard has a temper and the conversation they want to have will be a rough one, they wait. Because what they have to say is - important.

It takes half an hour for the ship to be set to rights, junior members of the crew rushing about with fresh protectants for the scarred wood and young Shapers working under the eye of the older crew members to guide the wood into something resembling its former appearance. Metalbeard watches it all with a look that's almost-peaceful, almost serene. It's the twitching of their fingers, the way their hand drifts to their sword belt at sudden moves that gives away the battle lust still lurking in them. For now at least, the physical battle is over though.

The ship is as calm as she can be with the quest they’ve undertaken. It's time.

They walk forward, hair swaying under the weight of crooked flowers - knocked aside in the battle. Their face shows their concern and their frustration; Vitruvius sees no need to hide.

"Captain, we need to talk. Privately." They hate to be so formal but – well, a bit of extra respect can’t hurt their goals.

"Can you not see that I'm busy?" The other Shaper snaps, gesturing to the crew at large. All seems calm for now, but there are more members of the crew on deck than is normal, more Shapers and warriors watching the horizon for any sign of threat, any off flicker that could hide the Queen Anne's Revenge.

"I can see that your crew is handling this, that they've got this under control as you have no doubt taught them too. It's an insult if you think they can't work without your supervision." A gamble, but too often that's what they've needed with Metalbeard, a gamble and play of words and concepts before they're willing to give in to anything.

This is no different and with a snort of disdain the pirate captain - the Priest of Yemaja, Mother Sea, the Holy Queen Sea who was so close to La Sirene that they could almost hear the whisper of her bubbling laughter - stalks down the ship's hull, a jerky, angry gesture of the arm the only indication they should follow him.

They do, of course. It hadn't crossed Vitruvius' mind that Metalbeard would be in a good mood about being asked away from the center of activity that was the ship's deck and their foul temper is expected.

Following the pirate captain, Vitruvius could only shake their head at their own thoughts - just a few short months ago they had been completely free and relatively on their own., traveling with friends when they wanted but mostly enjoying the solitude, hopping from island to island as they did Gran Bwa's will, planting flowers and spreading nature's children along as they could.

Now here they were, miles from the nearest plot of good land, on a ship surrounded by water lovers with hardly a plant to be seen if they didn't shape it from the aether themselves.

The way things changed.

"If all ye wanted was to be daydream, there was no need to pull me from the deck," Metalbeard snapped, their harsh voice interrupting their scattered recollections.

Vitruvius frowned but held their tongue - lashing out wasn't going to do anything at all, especially with what they were hear to say. "Fine. I'll lay it out for you plain and simple - you're too blood thirsty. You tore through those guards as if they weren't even there! It was unnecessary-"

"I'm a fucking pirate, did ye go an' forget that? I'm not some peace-lovin’ nature child! This here is shapin’ up to be a WAR and blood’s only ta be expected."

"Don't. Don't hide behind that excuse, this is about more than you being a warrior! You're a pirate, not a soldier and a priest too, you may not be one of the Lwa’s children but you _are_ a Shaper! You aren’t trapped in the cut of life like other people are! If the shape you see forming is one of war, you change it. You don't _dive in_ and _embrace_ it!"

Metalbeard laughs, the sound as vicious and cutting as icy waves in the rush of a storm.

"Oh is _that_ what this is about? Ye think I'm not fit to be a Shaper because I'm not _hiding_ like a fuckin’ COWARD? Because I'm going out there and dealing with YOUR problem!?"

"My - my problem – coward?!" They glared and bit their lip, clenching their fists because that wasn't it at all. That wasn’t what they were- they weren't -!

Deep breath. Hold it. Release it.

The tension drained out of them slowly. "I'm sorry… that that’s the impression I've given you. I know you didn't want your crew to be involved in this and for that I'll apologize again. But my concern is _not_ because I'm judging you. I'm _worried_ about you. Even I can tell that there's something wrong, that _something_ has happened. The pirate I met, even though it was just three weeks ago - that pirate isn't the person standing here before me. You can't even see it, can you? You're changing Metalbeard, you're wading in a sea of blood and you're dragging your crew in after you."

Metalbeard sucked in a ragged breath, their face paling with surprise and - rage.

Vitruvius didn't give them a chance for retaliation, pressing forward with brutal efficiency.

"Your crew loves you. They'd wade into the depths for you, they'd roam this earth as members of the dreaded undead for you – oh yes, I’ve heard that story - and now, now they're wading into war, for you. Blackbeard is a monster. We need to stop him. But - for your crew's sake, for your sake, you can’t -"

They aren't granted a chance to continue, because Metalbeard finally snaps and surges forward, a tidal wave of muscle and power, eyes dark and swirling with rage like the sea at the shift of tides and their lips curled back into a snarl that bares teeth.

"Fuck you. Fuck YOU, FUCK YOU! Ye don’t know anythin’ about me, ye don’t know anythin’ about my crew, don’t ye dare talk about f’or my crew’s sake’ – you don’t know anything!”

“I know they love you. I know they’d bleed for you and die for you – they already are! I know you love them, every last one of them, regardless of how much you try to play the heartless captain! I know you’re angry, even if I don’t know why, and you’re letting it consume you, letting it-” They’re cut off by forceful hands and dangerous strength, as Metalbeard lifts them off their feet and slams them hard against the wall. The pirate is snarling, anger and bitter dismissal in their dark eyes.

“Letting it what? ‘Blacken my soul’, is that what you were going to say?” They sneer and push Vitruvius further up the wall. “I’m not afraid of a little more filth, a little more taint – my soul is already black and stained, I’m dirty and defiled and I /don’t/ fear it!”

“Your soul is already black, Metalbeard. That’s not what I’m afraid of.” The look they give him is calm, piercing – edged with pity. Never mind the hands pinning them up – for all the emotion in that steady gaze, they could the ones holding the pirate down. “And yes, if it makes you feel better, I am afraid of something.”

“Your soul is black. Black as the ocean’s depths and just as deep, but your rage – your rage lightens it. And to lighten your soul would be your undoing my friend, as sure and swift a death as a bullet or sword could provide.”

One of Vitruvius’ hands settles on top of Metalbeard’s not trying to make them relinquish their grip, simply holding on. “You serve the Sea herself and you’ve promised your life to her. Your soul is as dark as her depths, the darkness from which all life came. It is as her sea – your darkness is the shade your crew hides in, the rich soil from which sea grass grows, the protective depths that allow life to flourish.

“But your rage is a flame, is a light that will burn away your darkness, will set alight the shades that protect your crew, your family. Your rage will boil away the oceans of your love and their bones will bleach and crumble, their flesh eaten by the unending hunger of those flames. Your thirst for blood will burn away your waters and leave them a lifeless desert, a tundra of fire and sand to rot upon. A land in which no life can thrive, not even your own.

“The promise you swore to your goddess will be broken, for how can any serve the ocean with a soul of sun-dried death? You are the assassin, the pirate, your Lady’s knife in the dark, yes, but you are no mad dog on a leash.

“Our ocean is tainted, our seas polluted, but they endure, because to endure is to live and the ocean embodies life itself. Her waters are terrible and without mercy, but they are always giving – the sea does not wash across the shore and leave it dry. Your rage is great and your anger is not without cause but Metalbeard – you deserve more than to be burned to ash by its fire.”

They watch the blood drain from Metalbeard's face, their knuckles white before they release them suddenly, stepping back. -

"Is that a prophecy, Oracle?" Metalbeard, and their voice is gruff, low now, the anger is gone, but they can hear the fear in it, the shock, and their voice softens.

"No, no of course not, Just a fear, a guess – I’ve told you before, I’m not an oracle. You can ignore me, if you want. But I hope you won't. My friend, I want to help you."

“Vitruvius, ye say yer not an oracle, but we both know yer predictions are the sort with a nasty habit of bein’ accurate,” Metalbeard laughs, and the sound is anything but joyous. They scrub a hand over their face and take a seat, shoulders slumping, and without the rage, they simply look haggard, worn and tired to the bone. They look as if the weight of the world as settled on their shoulders and Vitruvius’ own shoulders sag, a flash of guilt coming to their face.

 “Yer right. I know, ‘ve known, that – ‘m gettin’ worse. Losin’ me temper, pushin’ the lot of us to hard, to damned fast but hell if I know what to _do_ about it. I’m doin’ too much, I’m too angry, I’m so fuckin’ pissed off I can hardly see straight sometimes! We’re after _Blackbeard_ , Vitruvius and they’re not ready! None of us are ready an’ there’s no time to _get_ ready, not with the fucker tearin’ his way through the gods damned seas, pissin’ off every spirit from here to Timbuktu! I can’t be soft an’ good and kind for ‘em, I don’t know how! I don’t have time to learn how, I can’t figure out how to – be all friendly and kinds and shit the way you think I should! It’s all rage in me, all rage an’ anger and I can’t fix that! I lost it, that thing, that thing that lets people be good and soft and stop wantin’ blood and death and war. I don’t know how to be a captain in peace, that part of me is lost and forgotten alright?”

“I know damn well it be a fuckin’ miracle I haven’t lost any of ‘em yet and _I know_ I’m going to lose one of them. But there’s nothing I can do about it! Nothing I can do to get me crew ready to fight him, not when _I’m not ready!”_

The air rings, heavy with the weight of that statement. Vitruvius doesn’t know what to say, because Metalbeard looks miserable with the admission, frustrated and almost helpless, almost _childlike_ , and it feels so very wrong that this pirate, this _person_ could feel that way, would feel that way, and it hurts them even more because they know it’s true. Metalbeard isn’t ready, they aren’t ready, the Sea Cow isn’t ready. They are like children, helpless and thrown into something bigger than them and they’re all lost. Metalbeard more than others, but they are all lost and helpless as children here.

And maybe that’s it.

They’re acting, all of them, as if they’re alone in this, but they’re not. Vitruvius doesn’t just has to concentrate to feel the warmth in the back of their mind, the weight, the comforting, ancient feeling of Gran Bwa lurking. They aren’t alone, and if they _are_ children then well.

When a child is overwhelmed, don’t we say they should find their parents?

“You’re right, you’re absolutely right my friend but I think, no I know, we’re looking at this the wrong way. We’re not ready, none of us are, but we don’t have to be ready, not in this sense. We’ve been looking at this, all of us, as if it were a challenge solely for us and that’s our own, very human folly. You can’t figure it out alone, I can’t figure it out alone, and we don’t have too.”

Metalbeard stares at the other priest for a moment, completely caught off guard. “What?”

“We don’t have too,” they repeat, grasping the pirate’s hand and tugging lightly, “Come on, let’s go to your room. We’re going do what we should have been doing weeks ago.”

“What?!” There is a higher note to the pirate’s voice, something a little bit worried, a little panicked.

“We’re going to go to your room – it’s the biggest on the ship, correct? We’re going to need room and comfort, especially since I doubt either of us has done this with another person in a while,” they explain, “Which really is a mistake, which really has been a mistake. I should have thought of this ages ago; you need a break even more than I do and we’ve been neglecting this.”

Metalbeard takes a deep, calming breath, fingers flexing as if they want to grab something. “What. Are. Ye. Talkin’. About?”

“Eh? Praying of course! I don’t know why we didn’t think of this before but Meta, I don’t know what to do to help you and you don’t know what to do but that doesn’t mean we’re just hopeless. The Holy Queen you serve would hardly abandon her child – so let’s go ask your mother for help.”

“M-my mother?”

“I don’t know how to help you find what’s been lost,” Vitruvius said gently, “I’d like to help. But we don’t have time for the two of us to fumble together and find it on our own. Let’s find your mother, and ask Lady Yemaja for her aid.”

They reach out and take the other’s hand, entwining their fingers. “Let’s go.”

**Author's Note:**

> These are just a few scenes from a project i was working on. Not entirely proud of my work here, but I think a lot of it's good and hopefully has laid out an idea of what I'm doing here in this verse. So glad the LEGO Movie Bang was created so I could get a kick in the pants to start writing this thing!


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